


the strangest thing

by chameleonchanging



Series: 100 lbs flour and 300 eggs [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: Percival has a really weird shopping list and Newt is the cashier at the local grocery with Questions.A modern!AU.





	the strangest thing

“He’s not a terrorist,” said Tina, setting the last plate onto the table and taking her seat. It was the first time in a while they all had enough time to get together, what with an escalating case at Tina’s precinct and Newt and Queenie both with thesis deadlines fast approaching.

“He could be,” Newt protested. “Flour can explode.” 

Tina rolled her eyes and helped herself to a dinner roll. “Newt thinks one of the regulars at the store is planning on blowing something up,” she explained to Queenie. 

“He had twenty sacks of flour!” said Newt. “What else could he possibly be doing with a hundred pounds of combustible material?”

* * *

It went like this:

On Friday nights, Newt had a shift at a small 24-hr grocery so he could pay his graduate school tuition. Some days he was on the restocking crew, loading endless pallets of cans onto shelves and fishing half-eaten yogurt out of the back of the beans aisle, but mostly he worked as a cashier.

He suspected this was because his manager hated him and was punishing him for That Incident by making him deal with people, but that was a different issue.

Every week, Newt would be minding his own business at the register at some ungodly hour of the morning, and a handsome middle-aged man would come sweeping in the doors with a touch of mania in his eyes, usually dressed in a very nice suit. He was always lucky enough to get the one cart with the really obnoxious rattling wheel, and Newt could track his progress through the store by the noise alone - straight through produce, occasionally a stop in dairy, but always to his final destination in the baking aisle, where he’d do his level best to clean them out of whatever flour they had in stock. 

And then he’d rattle-rattle-rattle his way up to the registers, no doubt slowed by the addition of a small child’s weight in flour, where he would drop each sack on the conveyor and Newt would scan it and place them three at a time into doubled paper sacks. It was like the world’s shortest bucket brigade, minus the buckets. He’d pay in cash, decline Newt’s offer to help carry his things out to his car, and then disappear back to his secret factory for playdough -

* * *

“Why would he be making playdough?” Jacob asked from inside the kitchen, where he was rolling out a sheet of sugar cookies. 

“I dunno,” said Newt, leaning on the counter by the display case. “But Tina said he probably wasn’t making explosives, so that’s my new theory. Giant batches of playdough.”

“What would he do with that much playdough? It’s not like there’s an endless supply of children in this town,” said Jacob. 

“Well, you already said he’d have to be a pretty dumb professional baker to not be getting his supplies wholesale,” said Newt. “And I’ve never seen him buying more than a carton of eggs at a time anyway.”

* * *

Of course, that week the stranger proved him wrong. He skipped the flour entirely, rattled his way to the refrigerated cases, and picked up 300 eggs. 

“I, um, think we carry them in larger quantities,” Newt said, running the tenth carton past the scanner and keeping his eyes firmly on the screen. At the end of the conveyor, the man paused and then lifted two boxes of 60 count eggs out of his cart. 

For the first time, Newt saw him smile, a wry little thing curling the corner of his lips. 

Then he added a package of toilet paper and a chocolate bar to the endless line of egg cartons, paid, and left.

* * *

“He doesn’t  _sound_  like he’d be into egging somebody’s car,” said Queenie. 

“ _Three hundred eggs_ ,” said Newt. “Do they even make home refrigerators big enough to store that many?”

“I think so,” said Queenie. “Maybe if there’s nothing else in it.” She added another note to her flowchart.

“Well, there you are then. He has to eat, doesn’t he? So he can’t be keeping all those eggs,” said Newt. He closed his book with a snap. It wasn’t like he was getting any work done, and his draft wasn’t due for another week anyway.

“Maybe his wife is pregnant and she’s having cravings,” Queenie suggested.

“Three. Hundred,” said Newt. “And he’s been doing this for more than nine months.”

“You know, sweetie, you could always just ask your crush what he’s up to,” said Queenie. 

“I do  _not_ -”

* * *

So Newt spent the week scrounging up his courage. Friday night, he sat and waited for the sound of a noisy cart.

But nobody came. Or the next week. Or the next.

* * *

Newt looked up when someone started loading items onto the end of his station and his eyes widened. 

“What happened to you?” he asked before his brain-to-mouth filter caught up. He looked away quickly and started scanning. Two cans of chicken broth, a package of hard candy, some oatmeal, a container of ice cream.

“Do you know, you’re the first person to actually ask,” said the stranger. He moved stiffly, one arm in a sling, leaning heavily on a new cane that he didn’t seem quite sure how to use. Somehow he’d gotten the shopping basket to balance on the handle. His skin was covered in patches of old yellow bruising, with one particularly dark spot around his left eye. 

“I’m so sorry, I need to learn to keep my mouth shut,” Newt mumbled. He took the card when it was offered and swiped.  _Percival Graves_ , it read. He must have been staring, because Percival snorted.

“You could have just asked for my name if you were so curious,” he said. Newt flushed pink and handed the card back.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. 

“Accident at work,” said Percival.

“I … see,” said Newt, even though he really didn’t. He finished bagging the items and glanced at Percival’s cane. “Can I help you get your things to your car?”

“If you don’t mind,” said Percival. “Thank you.”

The air outside was warm, and Percival flinched when they left the air conditioning. Newt pretended not to notice and followed him to his car, where he waited for Percival to pop the trunk and settled the groceries in a corner under the net.

“Do you like bread?” Percival asked suddenly. “I bake. Bread. A lot. Only I’m not allowed to go back to work for another three weeks, so I can’t get rid of it the way I usually do.” 

“Um,” said Newt. But before he could answer, Percival’s phone went off and he scowled.

“My partner, no doubt,” he muttered. “Goldstein’s been watching me like a hawk. Thank you for your help, Mr. -”

“Scamander,” said Newt with a sinking feeling that he knew a little bit more than he’d realized.

“Mr. Scamander,” said Percival. “Thanks.” He got into the car and drove off, leaving Newt in the parking lot.

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Hi, Newt, it’s not a great time right now, my partner’s gone missing again and he really shouldn’t be on his own-” said Tina.

“Right,” said Newt. “I think I might be able to help you with that. Your partner wouldn’t happen to be named Percival, would he?”

* * *

On Friday, Percival arrived at the check-out with two enormous loaves of bread, four freezer bags full of cookies, and ten banana nut muffins, all stacked into a paper bag and set in the bagging area of Newt’s station. He was only getting one sack of flour this time, and a few items that looked like they might go into a smoothie.

“Ah,” said Newt. “I don’t - What?”

“I think we know some people in common,” said Percival. The yellow in his face had started to fade and he was moving a little easier with his cane, though he was still in a sling. “I’d offer to shake, but, well. Percival Graves, pleasure to meet you.”

“Newt Scamander,” said Newt. “I didn’t realize you were Tina’s partner. She’s been terribly worried for you. We all have.” He wondered if he’d said too much, but Percival shrugged.

“Goldstein worries a lot. She’s even right, most of the time,” he said. “But she’s gotten the Captain to revoke my access for the rest of my leave, so I don’t have a lot to do to keep myself from going stir-crazy.” 

“So, the flour -?” Newt asked.

“Stress baker,” Percival confirmed. “The eggs were for meringues. And creme brulee.”

“And you’ve been feeding your office, which they didn’t know about before I told Tina where you’d gone,” Newt concluded. He leaned over to look in the bag. There were a lot of muffins. 

“Anyway,” said Percival, “I wanted to drop these off for you. You can eat them or give them away or whatever. I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other now that we have mutual friends, anyway.” 

“Thanks,” said Newt. “Um, do you need help with your things?”

“I think I can get it myself this time,” said Percival with a faint smile. “But thanks anyway.”

* * *

Newt wasn’t surprised in the least to see a familiar face next time he had dinner with the Goldsteins.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to vaderina for handing me the first line on a silver platter.


End file.
